And as my life crumbles at my feet I see a figure standing on top of the rubble and at first I think it's you. But it's not because you don't even notice the debris. It's me, of course it is, because I am happy to see this end, this sweet disaster burning everything I am and was into a pile of crumbs at my own feet.
Add this to the list of poems that make no sense. I try, I really do.